T. C. Southwell

___________________________________________________________________________

CHAPTER FOUR

Fire Demon

The next morning the army left the town, Mirra walking among them, while Bane rode ahead on the dragon. Thick grey clouds obscured the sun, and a chill wind plucked at her thin robe, making her shiver. They walked through pleasant rolling fields of grazing land, and then joined a road that ran alongside a large forest. Bane had allowed her to be untied, and it was a relief to be able to move her arms again. Benton walked beside her, obviously relieved to see her in one piece.

"We heard about what he did to you. I'm sorry that he learned your secret from us."

"It was no secret, had he asked, I would have told him myself. And even had he not asked, he would have found out eventually."

Benton shook his head. "I wish we could set you free, Healer, but you wouldn't get far, and he'd kill us for sure if we did. We're not all bad, some of us are quite decent fellows, but we joined his army rather than die. There are those who enjoy murdering and torture, but my friends and I don't."

She smiled and patted his arm. "I know. I would not ask you to risk yourself on my behalf."

Mirra stumbled beside him, her breath rasping in a dry throat. Benton helped her, an arm around her waist, but by midday, the last dregs of her strength ran out, and she collapsed. Benton called to a friend, and between them they lifted her, their faces grim. She knew almost nothing for the rest of the day, a vague blur of grass passing beneath her, the soft tramp of marching feet.

The men stropped, and she was lowered to the ground. They moved away quickly as the cold presence of the Demon Lord approached and stopped beside her. She opened her eyes a slit to look up at him. A satisfied smirk twisted his lips.

"Well, well. How do you feel now, witch? A little dry, maybe?" He chuckled, gloating.

Mirra's eyes followed him as he crouched beside her. He stared at her for a moment, looking more angry than triumphant.

"How easily you die, Healer. So soon. Too soon. I had hoped to enjoy tormenting you a little longer." He raised his head, his nostrils flaring, and she sensed a deep rage building in him. "My father would be pleased ..." He looked down at her, scowling. "Yet I am not. No, I think not. For you, death would be a sweet release, and that you will not have yet."

Bane gripped the front of her tattered robe and jerked her upright. The world spun around her, and a roaring filled her ears, then a cold sensation engulfed her, and everything went black.

Mirra woke in Bane's tent, lying on the floor. Wetness chilled her face, and more water splashed onto her cheek. She opened her eyes to find Bane seated on the bed, dribbling water onto her from a cup. She licked her lips, and he smirked.

"Thirsty, witch?"

She gazed up at him with deep sadness tinged with despair.

This seemed to irk him, for his brows drew together, and the smirk vanished. "Are you not going to beg for water, girl? Do you not want some?"

She nodded.

"But you are not going to beg, are you?"

She shook her head.

The Demon Lord stared at her, his face unreadable, his eyes like chips of blue ice. "Very well. Sit up and take the water, for I have decided to let you live a little longer. This is too easy for you; I want your death to be painful, witch."

Mirra longed for the strength to refuse the water, to take the easy way out. Yet she did not want to die, and the proffered cup was so close, so tempting. Still she remained unmoving, staring at the cup, not sure that she had the strength to take it. Her eyes flicked to Bane as he leaned closer.

"So, you would like to refuse and die now, would you not? Afraid of what the future holds?" He reached down and dragged her upright. The tent spun, and darkness nibbled at her mind, then he shook her, and the world steadied.

"You will drink, or I will pour it down your throat. No one defies me, understand?"

The tin cup rattled against her teeth as he pressed it to her lips. Water sloshed into her mouth, and she swallowed. After the first mouthful, she sucked at the water, raising trembling hands to grasp the cup. Never had she tasted anything so wonderful, wet and soothing. When the cup was empty, she looked up at the man who held it. His mouth twisted in a contemptuous sneer.

"I knew you would not have the strength to resist. You humans are so weak. Do not think that you would have escaped me though. I hold your life in my hands, witch, I decide your fate, not you. When I have drained every last ounce of pleasure from your torment, I shall devise a particularly horrible death for you."

Mirra bowed her head as he poured another cup of water. This time she took it, forcing herself to drink it more slowly, knowing that too much would make her sick. Bane dropped the waterskin beside her, as well as a loaf of stale bread.

"Eat, drink and be merry, Healer, for tomorrow we march again."

Bane stretched out on the bed with a sigh, leaving her to sip water and nibble the dry bread. She slept a little, then woke thirsty again, and drank more water. Misery and sadness made her weep in the darkness until she drifted off to sleep once more.

The next morning she learned more of the Demon Lord's cruelties. On his orders, Mord presented her with a feast for breakfast. Grilled fowl and roast boar filled her plate, drenched in rich gravy. For a moment she stared at it, then looked away, although her stomach rumbled with hunger. Bane smiled as he spooned his breakfast of Underworld food, which, she surmised, was probably made from the decomposing remains of human sacrifices made below. Her stomach clenched at the sight and smell of the terrible stuff he ate.

"What is the matter, witch? Do you not like the food?"

She met his eyes. "I do not eat flesh."

"Ah." He chuckled nastily. "I knew that, of course. But you will eat it now, for Mord made it especially. You would not want to hurt his feelings, would you?"

"No, but I cannot eat this."

"You can, and you will."

"No." She shook her head.

Bane's fist crashed onto the small table, making the crockery, and Mirra, jump. "You will obey me!"

Mirra looked down at her twisting hands. "I cannot, I am sorry."

The Demon Lord smirked, turning to call out of the door flap, "Mord, bring me the man that helps her."

Fear clutched her heart. "No, please do not hurt him."

"Then eat your breakfast, you ungrateful girl."

Mirra stared at him, not understanding his wish to torture her. No one had been cruel to her before, and she wondered why it pleased him so. Her hands wound together in an agony of confusion at the terrible choice that he forced her to make. Mord arrived outside the open flap with two more trolls, dragging the hapless Benton.

The soldier stared at the Demon Lord with abject terror, and then his gaze flicked to her. Mirra cringed under his pleading eyes, and picked up her fork. Her hand trembled as she looked at the dead remains on her plate, longing to jump up and flee. Bane watched her, still smirking, his blue eyes sparkling with glee. When she continued to hesitate, unable to bring herself to touch the food, he gestured to the waiting troll.

"Beat him."

"No!"

Mirra speared a piece of meat and thrust it into her mouth, forcing herself to chew it, closing her mind to the taste of dead flesh. Bane chuckled at her revulsion and made her eat every scrap, keeping Benton on hand so that she could not refuse. When at last the ordeal was over, he rose and flicked his fingers at the waiting trolls, who released their prisoner. Mirra fought against the sickness that churned her stomach until Benton was safely away, then staggered out of the tent to vomit. Bane's laughter followed her, filled with sadistic satisfaction. He strode away to mount the red dragon, leaving her weak and shaking, trying to spit the last of the foul taste from her mouth.

Benton returned to find her sitting forlorn on the ground, Mord packing away the Demon Lord's tent. She gulped down the water that he gave her, washing away the last of the oily taste. As soon as she was able, she followed the rest of the tramping horde from the small valley in which they had camped, Benton beside her. He gave her a little bread, but the rest of his supplies consisted of dried meat, the staple ration of the troops. Still, with that and the water, her strength returned somewhat, and she was able to walk with only a little help from him.

Each night she was taken to Bane's tent and tied there, forced to sleep on the floor beside his bed. At times he woke her, tossing and turning in bad dreams, but for the most part, he ignored her. Only when he decided to use her for his sadistic pleasure did he pay her any attention. Almost every day he forced her to eat meat, once he made her drink wine until her head spun and she vomited it up.

Mirra endured it without a word of rebellion or rebuke, no longer defying him and refusing, knowing that it was useless. His enjoyment of her torture dwindled each time, for she gave him no satisfaction with her meek acceptance of his cruelty. Sometimes at night she would weep for his twisted soul and all the innocents that he had slaughtered. Outside she would hear the lupine howls of the hunting dark creatures, and the distant screams of their prey. None ventured near the Demon Lord's tent, and after a while she was no longer jerked into shivering wakefulness by the blood chilling sounds.

Each day Mirra watched his army swallow up the land, marching like a black disease over green fields and through picturesque towns, leaving ravaged ruins and trampled mud in their wake. The dark creatures followed in the dimness of the forests, venturing out only when they were forced to cross open stretches of land. Although they frightened and horrified her, Mirra pitied the twisted beasts as they shuffled, limped and crawled to the safety of the next forest. The sky remained grim and grey, but even its pale light seemed to torment the dark beasts. The vampires suffered least, being the only ones who could fly, while the large, slow moving grotesques sometimes moaned with pain as they endured the touch of the hated sun.

Occasionally they caught some hapless peasant, too stubborn, too stupid, or unable to run from the encroaching horde, and these were tortured horribly before they died. Bane took immense pleasure in making Mirra watch these atrocities; her pain apparently brought him great satisfaction. His favourite method of torture was burning, laying the victim on hot coals, so that he did not suffocate in the smoke, but died slowly. Next was dismemberment, relieving the victim of fingers, then toes, then hands, until he bled to death. Flaying was also high on his list, as was disembowelment and strangulation. Often the unfortunate men were left to contemplate their intestines as the army marched past. Women, more rarely found, were given to the army for sport, and at times their screaming agony lasted for days before they died.

Oddly, Bane did not participate in these atrocities himself, he only watched, although his enjoyment did sicken her. Stranger still, the ravishing of the women was also confined to the troops; Bane did not partake in this entertainment either. It also did not seem to occur to him to torture her in this manner, and she grew to realise that she was his personal toy, and not to be shared with the rabble. Since he partook in the killing only rarely and the torture not at all, it appeared that she was safe from that form of abuse for the moment. Neither did he seem interested in using her for his pleasure; she had not once glimpsed a flicker of anything even remotely resembling lust in his eyes when he looked at her, only contempt and grim amusement. He was indeed, she decided, an extremely strange man, although she was grateful for this particular oddity.

After five days of walking, Mirra was stumbling with exhaustion. The flesh had melted from her bones, leaving her thin and incredibly fragile. Benton gave her food, but she had little appetite, sometimes too tired to eat when they stopped for a brief rest at midday. In the evening she flopped down on the floor of Bane's tent and fell instantly asleep.

On the sixth day they came to the foothills of a small range of rocky mountains, steep slopes of stone rising from the green forest like bones pushing through the skin of a rotting carcass. Mirra waited with the troops while Bane entered the small cave to which his scrying had led him. He was gone for some time, and the men began to mutter. A gout of blue fire belched from the cave mouth, and Mirra gasped. A hush fell as everyone waited, then Bane emerged, unharmed, and raised his arms.

"The second ward is broken!"

An unenthusiastic cheer greeted this announcement, the men turning away to make camp for the night. Mirra was delivered to Bane's tent, and left to wait outside in Mord's care. The temperature had dropped as they had approached the mountains, and she shivered despite the warm jacket that Benton had given her, probably looted from an abandoned farm. Mord was soon summoned inside to deliver the drug for Bane's headache, dragging her in with him. The troll pushed her onto the floor, left the cup and scuttled out.

Mirra surveyed Bane as he sat hunched on the bed, his head in his hands. He stared at her balefully, then drank his potion and flung aside the cup. She settled on the floor beside the wall of the tent, trying to be inconspicuous. Bane with a headache was not someone with whom to trifle. His eyes bored into her, and she resolutely studied his boots.

"The wizard who set that ward was cunning, far more clever than the one who set the first ward. This one had a trap."

Mirra glanced at him, noting the bloodshot eyes and deep furrows between his brows. She was surprised that he spoke to her, for he rarely did, and not usually in such a conversational tone.

"Are you all right?"

"You almost sound concerned, witch, but do not think you fool me. I am perfectly all right. For all his cunning, the wizard set a weak ward, thinking that his trap would kill any who tried to break it. But I am more powerful than any wizard that ever walked this earth; his trap was a mere annoyance to me."

Mirra stared at him, for his haggard look belied his words. He gave a grunt of disgust and stretched out on the bed, while Mirra lay down on the floor as usual, pulling the jacket around her as the cold seeped up from the ground. She found his occasional attempts at conversation frightening and confusing, not wishing to say the wrong thing and send him into a rage, but not sure of what the wrong thing was.

Showing concern always annoyed him, yet she could not bring herself to pretend to hate him as he seemed to expect. Keeping quiet appeared to be the best solution, and then she sometimes escaped his notice for days, avoiding the ordeal of his malicious games. She longed to learn more about him, gain some insight into his life and what had moulded him into what he was, but no one seemed to know much about him, and she dared not question him.

Bane received a dream from his father that night. The Black Lord appeared in a blaze of dark power, radiating pleasure and triumph. The swirling background that indicated his mood was bright orange, streaked with yellow. Bane basked in the wash of pleasure, making the most of its rare bestowment.

"You have done well, my son. Two wards broken, a great achievement."

"Thank you Father, I shall not fail you."

"No, you will not." His father spoke with unnerving certainty. "But I am displeased that the healer still lives. Kill her, Bane."

"She is my plaything, Father, I enjoy tormenting her."

"I do not care, I want her dead." The dream darkened, red streaks appearing in the orange, with a hint of raging sea.

"What harm can she do?" Bane enquired. "She is a pathetic, weak thing. Can I not have my little pleasures?"

"I ordered you to kill her, so do it!"

The Black Lord's bellow filled Bane's head with pain as a huge wave of darkness loomed over him, and he jerked awake, breaking free of the dream. He sat up, gasping and shivering. This was the first time that he had argued with his father, or defied him. Why had he done that? The healer meant nothing to him; he could snap her neck as easily as breaking a twig.

Perhaps he was merely asserting himself; he would kill her when he was good and ready, not before. He looked down at the girl sleeping on the floor, his keen night vision seeing her clearly. Why did his father so desperately want her dead? What could she possibly do to threaten him? He did enjoy making her suffer, and soon he would kill her. Soon, he promised the Black Lord silently, soon she would die, when he, Bane, felt like it.

Chapter 4 Continued